Conquer With Courage
by Lara Isley
Summary: "Dead? No, he's been spotted in Novigrad." Iorveth's story during The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt, as he searches the Free City for a trace of hope. (Recommended: know the ending to Lady of the Lake, Book 5 in the Ciri Saga).


**Disclaimer: I have no claim on any piece, city or country of the Witcher franchise-kingdom.**

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The undisguised odour of rife humanity assaulted his nose. As he passed down the shit-strewn street, his mouth was curled in disgust under his kerchief. There had been shit in the forest, he couldn't deny it, but the idea of animals defecating was far less grotesque to him than that of humans doing so.

Over the light of a brazier, a faded sign depicted a path that disappeared into a vast, yellow horizon. He had reached The Nowhere, an inn oblivious to anything, regardless of whether one had bought enough drink beforehand.

Iorveth knew it was perhaps the only place in Novigrad where no one would remember seeing his face. Still, he kept his hood up for the time being.

Stepping into the dim establishment, he heard all the clandestine conversations being murmured near him. Most humans didn't realise he had honed his pointed ears as much as his bow arm. There was a smuggler bragging about her successful haul the previous night, a woman complaining that her impotent husband was suspicious of her affair, and a loan shark snickering about his latest scheme. Uninterested in all of it, Iorveth dropped his hood and bought a double of vodka. He used coin swiped from an unwitting minstrel that morning, then sat near the back with his half-empty cup of bleach. He packed his pipe, let the smoke obscure him from view, and waited.

Although Iorveth had claimed a corner, he was far from cornered. He could see a frosted window in the loft space above him. It would take but a moment to throw the smeared table at a potential assailant, launch himself into the rafters and break through his chosen egress.

Why the King of Beggars had arranged to meet him at The Nowhere, he wasn't certain. He wondered if he was even meeting his old...acquaintance, or if, more likely, he would be insulted by some measly representative.

While waiting, he took a folded handkerchief from one of his pockets and inspected its contents. Inside was a grey goose feather - a single fletch, having been taken from a bloodied arrow three nights beforehand. He breathed deep and stashed it away.

As a choir of temple bells proclaimed it was the eleventh hour, Iorveth heard the inn's door swing open once again. None of the other clientele paid any attention, but his eye had never left the room's entrance for more than a handful of seconds.

The hooded figure that strode inside was not the King of Beggars. It was a woman - she was too short to be an elf, despite the heeled boots. Beneath her tan cloak, Iorveth observed richly embroidered sleeves of teal and scarlet.

The woman rapped on the bar to get the innkeeper's attention. She requested a glass of red wine. As she waited for her drink, she let down her hood.

Iorveth recognised her immediately. He had seen those vivid chestnut waves and blue-green eyes not even a year past. It could be no coincidence that she was in the same place as him. He didn't believe in coincidence.

The woman slowly observed her surroundings, looking first to her left and then to her right. Her gaze almost drifted over him, but snapped back. Iorveth felt his eye socket itch beneath his bandana.

Taking up her glass, the woman strolled over to his table and sat opposite.

"Didn't know you worked for dear old Frances," said Triss Merigold, her dignified voice appropriately subdued.

"I don't," said Iorveth. "Clearly he believes we can be of use to each other, however."

"Please enlighten me," said the sorceress, sipping her drink.

"You first," said Iorveth. "What are you here for?"

"A safe harbour," Triss narrowed her eyes pointedly. Both of them were painfully aware of the witch hunts. Iorveth might've had no love lost for mages, but with hate rampant in the city streets, it was only a matter of time before his own people were made into scapegoats.

"There are no safe harbours in Novigrad," Iorveth replied.

"Very funny," said Triss.

"Seeing as I've never invested in _dh'oine_ real estate, I doubt I can help you there," he went on. "What else are you here for?"

"Well, this isn't my highest priority right now, but..." Triss trailed off, turning her head to observe the other, oblivious drinkers. Iorveth's instincts tingled. Just checking might draw attention to the pair of them. The woman clearly hadn't needed a low profile for very long. "I discovered an unstable elven portal under the city."

"What makes you so certain it's elven?" Iorveth rolled his eye.

"From what I can discern, it's located in a series of catacombs built by elves, which I presume have been forgotten by most since the time of the human invasion," Triss explained.

Iorveth exhaled smoke through his nose.

"I hope you and _dear old Frances_ aren't stooping so low as to make racial generalisations. I'm no mage, and I haven't a _bloede_ idea what this portal is about," he said.

"I didn't expect so. Other than the portal and the safety of all mages near me, there's nothing I'm concerned with. Now tell me why _you're_ here," said Triss.

"I'm looking for someone," he replied.

"Who? A mage?" asked the sorceress.

"No...an elf," said Iorveth.

"I don't know many elves in Novigrad personally. None that I can think of might be someone you're looking for," Triss bit her lip. "I wish Frances didn't act like this."

"Likewise. I won't let him. Stay or join me, but I'm going to see him right now," said Iorveth as he stood from the table. He finished his rather third-rate vodka, which he was certain the innkeeper was now cleaning the floor with, and pulled up his hood. He carried his pipe out with him. At the inn's door, he turned his head just enough to see that Triss had followed him.

Neither of them stood out as shady individuals. Almost everybody on the street became one after sunset.

"How is your...uh, family?" Triss murmured as she walked alongside him. Her question gave Iorveth a brief moment of pause, before he realised she must be referring to his commando.

"Taken care of," he said blandly. "Your concern is touching."

Iorveth's thoughts drifted back to the elves he had left behind. After Ciaran's death, the place of his right hand had fallen to an elf called Honora. He had heard mumbled complaints about her abilities at first. Some claimed she had picked up a sword too late in life, others that the bow she carried was too small. Neither bow nor swordsmanship was lacking in any of his people - he made sure of that - but then again, neither of those skills were what earned Honora the responsibility of commander.

Honora had charisma. It had taken her but a week to convince her doubters that the size of her weapon didn't matter. She was a weapon. Even a sharp stick in her hand might be considered superfluous. Aside from that, she held the ideology that her people's courage was their greatest asset and, with that belief, she could hone any warrior into the sharpest arrow when she chose.

His commando knew he was still alive, but Iorveth had heard the rumours of his own death. He had stepped down from his position because, for the present, he felt determined to find someone who could inspire his people more than either Honora or himself. His search had led him to Novigrad.

How Triss Merigold could possibly aid him in his quest, he struggled to comprehend.

When they reached the Putrid Grove, Iorveth murmured something about ewes and lambs and the door to the enclosure swung open. The neighbourhood's name was derived solely from its inhabitants, because it didn't smell any worse than the rest of the city.

"Frances doesn't take well to uninvited guests, unless they offer information. Or gold," Triss pointed out.

"I've already paid him," said Iorveth. He had been reluctant to call in the debt which had earned him that coin, but he hadn't the resources he needed otherwise. Fortunately, not all of it had been squandered on the King of Beggars' pitiful help.

"And he's already given you the information, through me, however little it means to you. You pay for the information itself, not necessarily its delivery," Triss continued.

"What's your plan, then? asked Iorveth.

"We investigate this portal for ourselves," said Triss. "It's the only thing that could've made Frances put us in touch."

"What about your safe-house?" Iorveth raised his one visible eyebrow.

"Already sorted, should I need it, but I didn't want to bring up the portal first thing. Have you arrived in Novigrad recently?"

"Somewhat so, yes," Iorveth shrugged, knowing his perception of recent would be different to hers. There were plenty of empty houses he could hide out in, but not knowing who else might decide to do the same made him sleep on edge.

"You must have to move around each night," said Triss, after he had summarised his sleeping arrangements. "Most likely those houses are beginning to fill up with mages on the run."

"They are. But Novigrad is a big city," said Iorveth.

"Look, I know you might not trust me, but Geralt told me how you aided him last year," said Triss. "If you like, I have space for you. I don't use magic at my house, just in case."

Iorveth considered her proposal. She was right to think he didn't trust her. There was also a risk that came with her hospitality. But, the night previous, he had been made to cut down four _dh'oine_ who had tried to use his temporary hideout to stage a drug deal. If he had been inclined to switch to the fisstech trade, he could've been a rich elf. As it was, the product was stashed somewhere for safekeeping. There was no telling when he might need the money, even if his involvement with the drug ended at medicinal circumstances and the occasional festival.

"I'll accept your offer," said Iorveth candidly.

"Alright. We can arrange a meeting with Frances tomorrow," Triss decided.

"Actually, I'm reconsidering that," Iorveth then announced.

"Already?"

"If you knew the price I paid...you'd be fairly certain our mutual friend has told me all he can," said Iorveth. He could see the curiosity burning in Triss's stare.

"Where does one like you acquire that kind of leverage?" she asked shamelessly.

"I'm sure you're aware that, living as long as we both can, we're bound to end up with old acquaintances all over the place," he said. The sorceress looked quite unsatisfied with his answer.

The coin used to purchase Frances' information had, in truth, come from none other than Cleaver. Their acquaintance was not as tight as most _dh'oine_ might've believed. The gang leader blamed a lot of the racism impeding his business on the Scoia'tael, but that didn't change the fact he owed Iorveth.

Back when Cleaver had been consolidating his power in the so-called free city, there was a particularly relentless lieutenant in the Temple Guard, who was intent on disbanding his organisation. It was no coincidence that the man had also been a prime upholder of injustice against nonhumans. He had died due to an emptying of his jugular in his own home.

Cleaver had placed a very quiet bounty on the lieutenant's head, which was unknown to Iorveth until the morning after he had killed him. He had decided to hold off on collecting the reward. Cleaver had warned him it wouldn't gain any interest.

None of that was relevant to Triss, so he kept his lips closed.

The sorceress had made them double back on themselves, and Iorveth's nerves prickled when he figured their destination was Hierarch Square. No Redanian guardsmen noticed them as they slipped through one of two broad gates. The courtyard beyond was a humble green affair, with a many-limbed tree at its centre that was probably younger than Iorveth. The house itself was three storeys high, actual gilt gleaming on its façade.

When Triss stepped up to the unlit doorway, the Seidhe emptied his pipe and put it away. He was offered a place to rest on the long table of the first floor, which Triss inundated with cushions and blankets. Iorveth eyed the antlers in the chandelier above him, to see if the lethal-looking ornamentation was secure.

Even if it wasn't, he had slept in far worse conditions.

"Do you know where this portal is?" asked Iorveth. Triss paused.

"Yes," she then said.

"But?" he prompted.

"I...I can pinpoint the portal's location on a map, but since the catacombs are mostly unexplored, or unheard of, I don't know how to reach it," she explained.

"You think our mutual friend might?" said Iorveth doubtfully.

"Not after what you said," Triss shook her head. "Which only makes it all the more difficult for us. Do you know much about your people's architecture, perhaps enough to guess where the entrance to the catacombs might be?"

"I know some things, yes," said Iorveth. "Do you have a map of Novigrad?"

"As a matter of fact, I do," said Triss.

"Good. We can start in the morning. What's your interest in the portal?" he asked suddenly.

Triss only slit her eyes at him.

"The general safety of people in this city. Unstable magic can be dangerous," she said.

"The majority of this city would sell you out to the witch hunters," Iorveth remarked.

"Well, for the minority who _wouldn't_ , I take an interest in this portal," and with that, the sorceress ascended the staircase to her room.

Iorveth didn't believe her reasons were genuine. Even if she was kind-hearted enough to protect Novigrad's citizens, he was certain there was more to it. What had even led her to discover such a portal?

That night, he slept better than he thought he would. He was blessed with a solid six hours before some dark dream tore him from his peace. It wasn't an uncommon occurrence. The first village he had razed to the ground, the second Special Forces commander he had defeated, the moment when he had lost his eye - they all returned to him in violently warped mirages.

Iorveth lay with his eyelids shut for what felt like a decadent amount of time. He knew from the chilly air on his face that he didn't want to rise just yet.

Not long after he remembered his most recent dream - a fragment from Loc Muinne that made his heart ache, just a little - he heard Triss's creaky steps on the floorboards above him. Knowing she was awake and wouldn't be disturbed, he dressed and found his flute in his satchel. Iorveth chose to play a favourite piece of his. It was one that always seemed to soothe him, whether from anger, or guilt, or fear.

Triss came down the stairs buckling the belt to her leather trousers.

"Well?" she asked him. "Have you hunted down my breakfast?"

"Only if you have a taste for racist," he told her. She sighed and rolled both her eyes. He was almost envious as he put away his flute. "Where do you keep that map of yours?"

"I'll get it in a moment," said Triss. She uncovered a fruit bowl on the sideboard and tossed a pear in his direction. His hand caught it with the speed of a striking viper.

The sorceress made them both a herbal tea, for which Iorveth was grateful, and then she plucked a rolled map from a nearby bookshelf.

"It took some time to pinpoint, but I know the portal is under this street _here_ ," said Triss. She had laid out the map and used the bowl of fruit, a silver platter, an inkwell and a candelabra to pin down each corner.

The place Triss had marked was in a street to the northeast, not too far from their current location.

"I've had a brief explore of the immediate area, but wherever the entrance to this place is, it must be further out," said Triss.

Iorveth's eye took in the map, trying to note the buildings that might offer some hope. The ruins of the old elven city had long been smothered or corrupted, however, and nothing came to him with any certainty. In his memory, he recalled places that had been preserved, albeit in the loosest sense of the word. There was the courtyard to the north, the bathhouses to the west…

 _Unbelievable,_ Iorveth thought to himself.

"I'd put money on here," he said, tapping the bathhouses.

"Really? Why?" Triss frowned.

"Although I doubt the original entrance was built there, the person who led me to Novigrad suggested I look to the baths for a lead," Iorveth explained.

"Who was this _person_?" asked the sorceress. He was glad she hadn't asked him what he needed Frances for.

"A tracker," said Iorveth guardedly. Triss narrowed her eyes at him.

"Are they good at their job?" she asked.

"He can track a fish through water, or so I'm told," he said.

"How do you plan to treat this informant at the bathhouses?"

"Like most information brokers. No doubt he or she'll want a lot of coin."

"He. Do you have that much coin? I certainly don't."

"I could," said Iorveth, his mind drifting back to the fisstech near the docks. "Perhaps we should attempt looking for an entrance to the catacombs ourselves."

"That's what I was thinking," said Triss. "How certain are you that the entrance is in a place your informant might just happen to visit occasionally?"

"If its location, including the portal's, didn't seem so convenient, I would say it was a stretch to assume that. With what my last lead told me, it looks more implicit than ever…who owns the bathhouses?" Iorveth asked.

"No doubt someone with power. That place doesn't cater to the lower echelons of society," said Triss.

"I may need that money after all," Iorveth muttered. Already he was figuring who to go through. Frances's cut of the drug trade had been stolen by Whoreson Junior and Iorveth had no interest in dealing with him, not unless he had to. Cleaver would have a smaller number of contacts, but he would go to the dwarf first.

"I don't want to know," said Triss.

"I wasn't planning to tell you," Iorveth replied. "Even so, it'd be worth our time to scout out these bathhouses."

"I'd recommend using the cover of night, personally," said Triss. "Besides, I have other intentions for the day."

"I don't need it," said Iorveth, in reference to the cover. He didn't much care for the sorceress's daytime commitments.

"Well, don't you have some funds to gather?" Triss retorted.

"True," said Iorveth. "Half an hour after sundown, then. Today."

"I'll meet you here," said Triss, pointing to the map.

With that, the two of them arranged to leave the residence. They left at different times, Triss going first and Iorveth an hour later. He didn't ask where she was headed, and she offered him no clue. The first place he went himself was where he had hidden the fisstech, after picking a long and circuitous route.

Iorveth's stomach rankled at the idea of selling the product, but, as usual when he felt such stirrings, he quelled them. What did it matter if the _dh'oine_ killed themselves with the substance, or took one of his arrows to the soft base of their skulls? It should all be the same. He'd sacrificed his honour the moment he had adopted his violent and bloody methods.

Iorveth still approached Cleaver's base of operations with a grim expression, having weighed the powder.

Cleaver's guards recognised him and frowned. His business with their boss should have been concluded.

"Would you inform Carlo I'm here?" he asked, masking his weariness.

"Let him through!" commanded a smooth voice from an open window. The glass was tinted dark, but Iorveth had no doubt the dwarf could see him from his desk. The guards' halberds parted and Iorveth proceeded towards the door, just as one blew his nose noisily through his fingers.

Charmed, the Seidhe passed over the threshold.

"If it isn't my favourite terrorist," muttered Cleaver dryly. Iorveth cast a modest glance over his shoulder. "What do you want?"

"I came here to offer you something," said Iorveth.

"There aren't any heads I'm putting money on. Well, none that you'd be interested in taking," Cleaver shrugged.

"But you'd always be interested in a sizeable quantity of fisstech, no?"

"Not personally, no."

"For business, not pleasure," said Iorveth, resisting the urge to clench his teeth. Cleaver sighed.

"I can't imagine a quantity big enough to justify dealing with you," said the dwarf.

"With Wiley's power on the rise, however…"

Cleaver unfolded his arms as Iorveth left the suggestion unfinished.

"How much? How good? If you even know."

Iorveth felt his eyes twitch, wanting to narrow. He wondered briefly how old the dwarf was, whether he could afford to be patronising. Either way, Iorveth gave him the details and Cleaver appeared to literally chew it over. His teeth gnashed together in thought.

The price he then gave was, naturally, too low. A fierce bout of haggling ensued, with Iorveth reminding his buyer that he could move the fisstech that day, given how low a profile he had kept.

Iorveth walked out with the promise of a sum that, most likely, wouldn't cover the price of the information he needed. Even so, it should have been enough to tempt his informant until he could find the means of gaining some more. How? That was the question. He'd almost asked about the smaller bounties Cleaver had mentioned, but pride had held him back. He wasn't a hired killer. He wasn't.

Iorveth spent the next several hours pick-pocketing humans, then bought something to eat from a random market stall. Using a different route to the one he had that morning, he collected the fisstech from the abandoned building near the docks. Cleaver's dwarves were already waiting at the arranged place, seemingly for some time. One was smoking a pipe and the other was idly tossing a knife around in his callused hand.

The dwarf with the knife weighed the fisstech and complained harshly about how Iorveth had promised a greater quantity. The Seidhe calmly offered to fix the tampered scales. With a stony gaze, the dwarf watched as he adjusted them.

Frustrated at having their attempt so competently thwarted, the dwarves handed over the coin. Iorveth checked a few pieces at random, turning them over in the light of the dwarves' single lantern. None were counterfeit.

"Don't trust us?" said the smoker.

"No," said Iorveth, looking him dead in the eye. He knew there could have been blood on the floor by now.

The three of them parted ways shortly after.

His satchel now heavy with a different addictive substance, Iorveth returned to his safest hideout and left it in as hidden a place as he could find. For all of his mistrust and blatant dislike, Cleaver must have known Iorveth was reliable and ruthlessly efficient.

At the appointed time, Iorveth found Triss waiting in an alley, in the next street over from the bathhouses.

"Two guard patrols, with maybe a four second blind spot. There are bound to be more on the inside, though. I honestly don't believe we can get in," she told him.

"No chance of going through the front door?" asked Iorveth.

"If either of us were men, perhaps," said Triss.

"The _Free_ City of Novigrad and not a single nonhuman can enter that establishment?" Iorveth snorted.

"Well, perhaps if _you_ were acquainted with or invited by the owner," said Triss caustically. "Not a chance for myself, though."

"There must be another way in," said Iorveth.

"I doubt it. Just storefronts and residences above and solid stone between them," said Triss. "Guess it's time for you to use that fame of yours."

"Fame?"

"Infamy."

Iorveth cursed softly under his breath.

"You have no idea how low a profile I've been keeping until today. I can't just walk up to the guards and-"

"Of course you can," the sorceress placed her hands on her hips. "Unless your peace and quiet is more valuable to you than this elf-hunt you're on."

"Peace and quiet isn't how I'd define it," Iorveth pointed out, bitter and quiet. "Fine. Wait here, unless you've any better ideas."

Triss waited. He raised both his hood and kerchief, then approached the two armed guards beneath the pillared entrance. One man was drowsy, grey and pockmarked, the other almost as stocky as a dwarf.

"Bugger off," mumbled the former.

Iorveth wished a thousand torments upon his mother's soul in Elvish.

"Swearing in Common only, if you please. We don't speak that crap here," said the stocky one.

The elf smirked at such a restriction being placed in an elven bathhouse.

"Don't mind me if I just wander on in," he said.

"Nope," said the first guard, his halberd drooping to cross with the other's.

"What does one do to gain admission here?"

"Know the man in charge," said the younger man.

Iorveth clenched his jaw and flared his nostrils. He unpinned the Redanian Special Forces badge from his quiver's hidden strap.

"Tell the man in charge there's a _Seidhe_ from Drakenborg here to speak with him," he said, handing it over.

The stocky guard frowned, and then the frown turned into a scowl. Iorveth figured he must be a patriotic fool.

"We'll pass it on," the man said gruffly.

"Now?" Iorveth suggested.

The guard narrowed his eyes and waited. When Iorveth heard the metallic tap of hobnailed boots behind him, the man called out to one in the patrol.

"Get your arse on the door for a minute," he said. "Keep both eyes on this one."

"Thought door duty was meant to be a nap," said the newcomer, glancing at the older, sleepier man.

The guard holding the badge disappeared into the bathhouses. He left a tense silence behind him. It was punctuated by the crackle of lit braziers nearby.

Whoever was in charge of the bathhouses, he worked late. Less than five minutes lapsed and then the guard came back. Iorveth prepared himself for a rejection.

"Reuven will see you. Now," the man said instead.

Iorveth considered the sorceress waiting for him in the alley, but he treated the invitation as delicate at best. Without a word, he followed the man into a humid establishment of ornate stone and latticed partitions. Dozens of potted, flowering herbs lined his walk to the owner's office. The guard left him at the door.

Reuven, or so Iorveth assumed, stood behind a desk. He was a very bald and a very large man, in all directions. His eyes were small even by _dh'oine_ standards, accentuating the piggish nature of his features. There was an intelligence shimmering in them, however, and Iorveth knew better than to take his thuggish appearance at face value.

" _Ceádmil_ , Commander," said Reuven. The Redanian Special Forces badge was on the table in front of him.

" _Ceádmil_ ," Iorveth replied.

"What is it you're looking for here?" asked Reuven, crossing his fleshy arms above his paunch.

"A bath," said Iorveth simply.

"Try again," said Reuven.

"Excuse me?" Iorveth raised his one visible eyebrow.

"Iorveth - may I call you Iorveth? Thank you - I know what has led you here. You have heard of an informer, a known grave-robber, being shot in public mid-conversation with the King of Beggars. Rumours told you the man was murdered by Scoia'tael, so you attempted to purchase your next lead from Frances Bedlam. Are you aware that the dead man was shot with an arrow fletched with grey goose feathers?" Reuven said, his voice subdued.

"I am," said Iorveth. He had broken into the city's mortuary three nights prior to meeting Triss at The Nowhere. That discovery had only made him thirstier for the King of Beggars' intelligence.

"And the crook's information led you here, it seems," the tall man continued. "To find a portal in Novigrad's elven catacombs, an entrance to which you believe to be somewhere in my humble establishment."

"Or perhaps a fugitive like me really does need a bath," said Iorveth dryly.

Reuven smirked.

"But what you _want_ is access to the catacombs," said the man.

Iorveth knew when the situation was beyond his control.

"How much?" he asked. Reuven's eyebrows slid up his smooth forehead.

"Your bill's already been paid, so to speak," he said. "Follow me."

"One request," Iorveth stopped him. "An accomplice of mine also wants access."

"You mean Triss Merigold? She isn't relevant to your goal, from what I can ascertain," said Reuven. "Did you enjoy your night with the sorceress?"

At his age, Iorveth found it hard to be greatly shocked by any revelation. Yet the extent of this Reuven's knowledge was unsettling. Not only that, but the freedom with which he was sharing it was unheard of in those of his profession. Iorveth's mind had formed the question of just _when_ he had been sighted with the sorceress, and the man had told him an instant later. The Seidhe felt his nerves prickle, on edge and cautious.

"The two of us have an arrangement of sorts," said Iorveth.

"Take my advice and end it now," shrugged Reuven.

"Is that advice for mages in general, or have you heard something specific?" Iorveth wanted to know. The man opposite him chuckled.

"Nothing specific."

"Her concern is that the portal is unstable and dangerous to Novigrad's general populace," Iorveth decided to say.

"Fetch her if you must. If she agrees to stabilise the portal, I'll let her come too. Oh, and you'll both have to accept blindfolds."

"No."

"But you won't be losing much."

Iorveth made sure his face expressed all his distaste. Leaving the study to the sound of Reuven's continued mirth, the Seidhe returned to a dark, brisk outdoors. An extremely curious and impatient Triss was pacing along the alley where he had left her.

"Tell me everything," she demanded.

"Looks like my infamy may just benefit us both," said Iorveth. "For once. If you're ready to stabilise a portal, follow me."

With a curious expression, Triss lengthened her stride to keep up with him on their way back to the bathhouses. The old guard was almost snoring against his halberd, while the more patriotic one glared at Iorveth as he passed by. The glare was only interrupted by an uncomfortable glance at the colourful sorceress.

A few courteous words of greeting were exchanged between her and Reuven when they were back in the study. Iorveth tried to decipher whether or not the two of them recognised each other.

The man called Reuven then returned the Special Forces badge and proceeded to lock the study from the inside.

"Wouldn't mind watching these doors for a moment, would you both?" he then asked.

Certain that he would be able to hear any attack before it arrived, Iorveth continued to look unimpressed and did as requested. Triss copied. Behind them came various sounds - woody creaks, stony scrapes, metallic taps. Iorveth saw Triss's lips twitch and guessed some kind of low-level magic was occurring behind them. When Reuven called on them to turn around, a bookshelf had been manoeuvred open and an archway gaped in the backmost stone wall.

"This way," said Reuven. Complying silently, Iorveth and Triss took the lead with Reuven directing them from behind. "Some light, if you please."

With a handful of softly spoken words, Triss conjured a fiery orb.

Cracked, grimy steps led down into the mouth of a cavernous warren. Cavities in the ground had become puddles, foul water having been dribbled in from the neighbouring sewage system. Iorveth raised the kerchief tucked around his neck, scented as it was with fragrant smoke and a certain, irremovable richness from the distant woodlands.

Reuven's directions were faultless, and then the three of them turned into a once-glorious antechamber to a crypt of white marble. In the corner was a shimmering space rimmed with white light.

"This is it," said Reuven. "Do what you need to do."

With an irritable glance, Triss drew a stick of lavender-coloured chalk from a pouch on her belt. She began to sketch a series of complex diagrams around the portal. The other two waited four long minutes in patient silence. The sorceress wound her free hand through the stale air, speaking a dialect of _Hen Llinge_ that Iorveth understood but wasn't fluent in.

Then a strange wavering occurred in the portal, its light extending a little further than before. The pressure in Iorveth's ears intensified and he saw fragments of stone splinter from the surrounding marble.

"All done," said Triss after a heavy exhalation.

"Dally on through," sniffed Reuven with a shrug. "I'll be here for when you return."

With tactical grace, Iorveth let the sorceress travel first through the portal she had just stabilised. He had hoped she would leave, but the fact she hadn't only proved what he suspected - she had another agenda.

There was an infinitesimally minute, cold rush of nothing as Iorveth stepped through the portal. He exchanged a dank warren for an arid one. Triss's orb of light illuminated veined, orange stone around, above and below them. With the portal glimmering to their rear in the passage, the only direction for them to go was forward. Iorveth inspected the dusty ground they trod on, counting perhaps four distinct prints aside from the ones they made.

The light from the portal stretched almost as far as the light coming from up ahead - a warm daylight that jarred Iorveth after the night of Novigrad. Triss extinguished the little orb in her hand. The passage ended in a bright corner, around which the two of them turned.

Opening up before them was a cavern, its walls and ceiling smooth and curved. Halfway across, the ground sloped upward in tiers to reach the entrance, which was covered by a scrap of loosely-woven fabric. The flat space nearest them contained an ashy fire-pit and all the accoutrements of a modest home.

Iorveth strode up to the covered entrance and peered out. There was nothing - no life, just blank, bright sand and stone that had been woven exotically by many storms. There were footprints along the ridge leading to the cave, but beyond that he couldn't see a definite path.

"Should we wait?" asked Triss, her tone soft.

"I will," said Iorveth resolutely.

He resigned himself to a wall perpendicular to both entrances, while Triss made herself at home on a cushioned protrusion of rock nearby. The sorceress wasn't inclined toward small talk and Iorveth considered himself spared. He sensed a sympathetic streak in the woman, regarding the plight of elves in general, but her sympathy was useless. Like most mages, she was probably educated enough to feel sad but not concerned enough to make a difference.

Iorveth's ears twitched. Through the stone came tiny vibrations, like leaves falling on loam.

Sunlight burst suddenly into the orange-lit cave. Iorveth looked up to see a tall, well-built elf step into the makeshift living space. One of her eyebrows was raised severely and her fingers fell to the knife hilt on her belt. She had loose, red-gold hair, kept back from her forehead by a cobalt bandana. The only imperfection on her angular face was the constellation of freckles beneath large, autumn-coloured eyes. They were framed by dark brown greasepaint.

"We aren't here to threaten you," said Iorveth in _Hen Llinge_ , his eyes still on the opulent dagger. It stayed in its sheath.

"Who are you and why are you here?" asked the other elf, her voice more husky than Iorveth would have guessed from her appearance.

"My name is Iorveth. This is…" he glanced at the woman beside him.

"Triss Merigold, sorceress," she said in common.

"I wouldn't ordinarily permit a human under my roof," said the elf sharply.

"And I wouldn't ordinarily allow _anyone_ to intimidate me," Triss retorted. "Who are _you_?"

"Eilís Áine aep Cathasaigh," said the elf. "I've heard much about you, Commander, from a very reputable source."

"And what source is this?" asked Iorveth. His eye carefully studied the elf before him. There was a strong chance she could be a supporter of the Scoia'tael, but he couldn't be sure.

Eilís gave him a knowing smile but didn't reply. She only glanced at Triss.

"I suspect I know the answer to this," said the sorceress. "But have you by any chance seen a girl pass through here - ashen hair, green eyes, quick to speak her m-"

"Only one other human has entered this place," said Eilís. "Seeing as you're here, Iorveth, I assume you know what happened to the grave robber."

Triss sighed and looked around the cave dejectedly. Iorveth tried to remember if he had seen or heard of anyone with that description before. His instinct told him Triss's search wasn't relevant to his own. Whoever she had been looking for herself wasn't going to affect him directly.

"Does this elf you're searching for plan to burn Novigrad to the ground in the next few months?" Triss then asked brazenly.

Iorveth almost smirked, remembering the devastation that Yaevinn had wreaked in Old Vizima years beforehand. Although the impact had been spectacular at first, Iorveth felt it hadn't done enough to justify the death toll that had reached him sometime later. He had never met the commander more than once, but even the memory of the other elf's idealism was grating.

"No," said Iorveth. There was no reason for Triss to trust his word, but she appeared to anyway.

"In that case, there's nothing for me here. If I don't see you again, Iorveth, take care...and though I hate your methods, good luck."

" _Va fail, daerienn_ ," said the elf.

With that, Triss turned and left the cave. Iorveth listened to her footsteps quieten and then cease completely before speaking.

"Given that you're already familiar with my reputation, Eilís, I assume you have an opinion on the Squirrels' cause?" he asked.

"Like most elves, I do," Eilís shrugged. "I was born in Novigrad itself. My parents were under the delusion that, by occupying a former elven city, they had yet to lose it entirely. I grew to feel their way of thinking was too passive. I've been an informer, a smuggler, an arms dealer - all for the free elves."

"Whose commando are you part of?" Iorveth would've liked to keep track of everyone in the Scoia'tael and its hierarchy, but as far north as Redania, that was near impossible.

Eilís gave half a smile.

"Officially, no one's. I'm still acting as something of an informer."

"Then why are you out here? Where _is_ here? I only ask because I'm searching for someone," said Iorveth.

"You're in western Zerrikania," said Eilís. That made sense to Iorveth. The veiny sandstone was foreign to him, as was the odour of the air and its heat. Yet that wasn't the only thing he had observed about the cavern. There was one bed, but an excessive amount of necessities for just one person to live. "As for your first question, I'm here as a liaison between various other informants and my commander."

"I hope this commando-less commander of yours is Isengrim Faoiltiarna," said Iorveth.

Eilís raised her eyebrow, the half smile returning.

"But Isengrim died after the Peace of Cintra," she said.

"I've been informed otherwise," Iorveth stated.

Sighing, Eilís moved towards the fire-pit and began relighting it from the embers. It was then that Iorveth noticed the arrows in her quiver were fletched with grey goose feathers, just as Isengrim's had been. She offered him some tea, which tasted darker and woodier than what he was used to. Despite Eilís's evasiveness, he wasn't put off. It had been a long year searching for rumours of Isengrim. It was nothing for him to wait a few minutes longer.

Eilís began packing a slim, elegant pipe and Iorveth did the same. They sat on an arrangement of heavily embroidered cushions.

"I assume we're waiting for his return, then," said Iorveth, as Eilís passed him a burning splint from the fire.

Eilís said nothing on the matter, instead making a comment on his pipe.

"It's a gnommish design," said Iorveth amicably.

"Do you play dice?" Eilís wanted to know.

"So long as it's not high stakes," he replied.

That was how - years after the Second Nordling War, after the betrayal at the Peace of Cintra, after the executions at Fort Drakenborg - Isengrim Faoiltiarna found Iorveth losing half a gram of fisstech at dice.

It took Iorveth a moment to acknowledge the face before his eyes - permanently disfigured but very much alive. He knew he wasn't one to judge.

"Brother," he said as he stood up.

"Brother," Isengrim replied, offering his arm. Iorveth took it and pulled him into a short embrace. In that instant, Iorveth's reality altered as he held living, breathing flesh and blood.

"How are you? Where have you been?" he asked. "If I had any faith, I'd thank the gods you survived."

The other commander smirked.

"'How am I? Alive. I have spent most of my time based here in Zerrikania," said Isengrim. "I found this place some time ago now, and Eilís shortly after in Novigrad. I see you're acquainted with her."

"He is," said the red-haired elf. She slipped between the two of them and tucked herself under the taller elf's arm.

"What are you doing out here? Why haven't you come back?" asked Iorveth.

The light in Isengrim's eyes retracted slightly, but Iorveth wasn't afraid of his reaction. He needed to know.

"Eilís reminded me why the Scoia'tael formed in the first place. Since then, I've been around. How is your commando fairing? Last I heard, they had left Flotsam," Isengrim said.

"Better than most commandos, I imagine. I left a highly competent person in charge," said Iorveth.

"You intend to return?" asked Isengrim.

"Of course," said Iorveth without hesitation. "Do you?"

There was the briefest silence, and then half of Isengrim's mouth rose gracefully. The rest of his face shifted ungracefully.

"Of course. I wouldn't have found my way to Dol Blathanna if I didn't."

"What do you hope to achieve _there_?"

"An agreement," said Isengrim. "With Enid an Gleanna."

"Impossible," Iorveth shook his head.

"He's already spoken with her," said Eilís.

Iorveth was stunned for an instant. Distrust and revulsion ached inside him at the mere thought of the sorceress. She was a traitor to him, no better than the Nilfgaardian aristocracy.

"But you haven't reached an agreement, I assume," he said.

"Not yet. There's hope, however. Since the outbreak of the war, the Northern Kingdoms have neglected the Scoia'tael as a threat. That gives Enid an Gleanna a better window of opportunity to open a discussion with us," explained Isengrim.

"A discussion."

"I don't blame you for your lack of trust, but there's more. There are mages with her working on something that could completely alter the fate of our race...and give it a chance to regrow."

"That must be one hell of a spell," said Iorveth.

"It is," said Isengrim simply.

"Will you and Eilís return with me, to the front, so to speak? Since the Third Nordling War, the Scoia'tael have been in desperate need of morale."

"Is that why you came looking for me?"

"As soon as I found a workable lead, yes," said Iorveth. "You and I both know the effect your return would have on our people. I doubt you like it, but you know how to use it."

"I was hoping to return with a stronger guarantee from Enid an Gleanna."

"The Elder races need you now, if they are to continue their fight."

"Very well...but you must promise to keep my negotiations a secret," said Isengrim after a moment. Iorveth nodded. "Eilís?"

"I'm coming with you," the female elf shrugged. "I have as little faith in sorceresses as Iorveth appears to, but as for Enid's word as a politician...I know what we need, and I want to believe we can get it."

"Thank you," said Isengrim, tightening his hold on her. "I won't let you down."

"Is it time for us to get out of this cave?" Ellis asked.

"It would seem so."

What little the two of them needed to take was gathered and shouldered within minutes. The Seidhe emerged from the portal to find Reuven waiting for them on the other side. His shrewd eyes noticed the packs.

"Should I inform the sorceress, then, that this portal can be closed?" he asked. "Or should I leave it open to swallow more cunning grave robbers?"

Iorveth chose not to glance at Isengrim, but he felt the weight of the decision made in that moment.

"If it's of concern to her," said the other elf plainly.

"Very well," said Reuven. The man led them out of the catacombs, where they returned to his office in the dead of night. "I take it this is _va fail_ , and that you won't be expecting any more favours from me."

"I won't. _Va fail_ , Sigi," said Isengrim.

"Mind how you go, Wolf," said Reuven.

The man extended his hand and, to Iorveth's mild surprise, Isengrim gripped his forearm in an elven handshake. He glanced at Eilís, but her expression only told him she would remain mute on the matter.

Isengrim and Reuven then parted ways, the former leaving the bathhouses through an egress so well hidden, Iorveth was certain he would never have found it from the outside. It was embarrassing that a grave robber had.

"What inspired you to help each other?" murmured Iorveth along the passage. "Yourself and Reuven."

"We met on the path as travellers, along with a tracker, journeying East seemingly forever. Many things happened on this excursion - debts of gratitude ensued, bonds between lone survivors, and pacts were made when it became apparent to our wayfaring souls that our paths may cross again. The three of us are quite disparate in our goals, but I earned the word of both these men that, should they be given the opportunity, they would lead you towards me," explained Isengrim. "By then, Reuven, in that way of his, had learned of your survival at Fort Drakenborg and informed me. Congratulations, brother. I thought there was nothing for me to come back to."

Knowing Isengrim wasn't going to elaborate, Iorveth satisfied himself with the answer. Knowing also that Reuven's spies would probably keep him well updated no matter what, he didn't bother with elaborate routes to his chosen hideout.

"It's not as homely as your place in Zerrikania, but-" Iorveth revealed the ultimately useless coin he had earned. "It comes with certain benefits. Care for a drink?"

Not long after, the two of them were sat in an abandoned corner of the reeking harbour. Iorveth with a cup of vodka in hand, Isengrim with gin. The water shimmered slimily in front of them. Eilís had offered to remain at the hideout, saying three elves, together at night, might draw too much attention. Iorveth had bought a flask for her that was now in Isengrim's coat pocket.

Despite the less than savoury surroundings, and the far less than savoury drinks, there was a tiny bubble of peace around them. Just for one, silent while. And then Iorveth muttered something that had been nibbling away at him.

"These mages in Dol Blathanna you mentioned - out of curiosity, who are they?" he asked.

"One Tíreachán Eohin aep Dubhshláine, who's been assisting my movements from here to Dol Blathanna, is working on the spell. But he's being aided by Natia Sionnach," Isengrim told him, holding his gaze.

Iorveth looked back with a blank face. Inside, he felt a twang of - something, he couldn't place his finger on what. He wondered if he should have asked.

"I've been informed you're acquainted with both, to differing degrees," said Isengrim.

"Yes," said Iorveth, trying to remain impassive. "I am."

Isengrim said nothing. Iorveth asked nothing else in return.

Finishing their drinks, they then set out together into the night of Novigrad, hoods and kerchiefs drawn up to hide their faces. They disappeared as shady individuals into the shit-strewn streets.

* * *

 **A/N: When you write so much Witcher fanfiction on your phone, autocorrect now recognises "dh'oine" as a legitimate word.  
All comments, criticisms and rogue thoughts welcome! **


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